A Few Words from the Bard

I seem to be falling behind on content for this little blog of mine. Maybe I'm still recovering from Andrew Bird last week. Maybe its that fall is coming and unlike most who see it as a season of dying, its always been like spring to me. It shakes open something alseep in me that hibernates all hot summer long. So, I thought a little Shakespeare would do for the day. I've read nearly everything the great bard has written. I won't say I can recite much of it, but for some reason these verses have always had a place in my mind and heart. Maybe it's the "ever-fixed mark" which is pronounced with the "fixed" as two syllables. Frankly-the whole thing is absolutely woo-making.

My favorite sonnet..from me to you.

Sonnet 116

Let me not to the marriage of two minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken,
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error, and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Andrew Bird- A Delicious Heretic

I don't actually have much to say today. It's entirely too lovely to be sitting inside the house pecking away at this wee keyboard. I've been puttering around the house cleaning like a madwoman in expectation of a dear friend coming to visit this coming weekend. One wouldn't want a house guest (no matter how dear) to discover a cobweb in the hallway or a pair of knickers hiding behind the armoire. Whilst doing all this corner probing house cleaning I've been listening to Andrew Bird-whom if you haven't discovered yet is one of my most favorite performers of this and the last century (which is saying a hell of a lot).

I had the distinct pleasure of FINALLY seeing him live this week at the Variety Playhouse in Atlanta. It seems a bit like destiny that I should see him exactly one year and seven months after the accident that kept me from seeing him when last he performed in town. He was at Eyedrum then, which would have given me closer proximity to his tasty physical presence, so its probably better that I missed it. I'm pretty sure I'd have simply swooned at his feet once he set into whistling or plucking pizzicato on his violin. Lord, I'm getting the vapors just thinking of it.

Anywhoo-I'm off to find the smelling salts. I wish I could attach a file here and I'd give you lots of free MP3's-but I suppose Blogger.com is probably onto us.

Just go buy it. NOW. You'll thank me.

The Perfect Blue Martini

While I'm not actually a martini drinker, there has always been something truly alluring about the simple drink. Had I not taken my first plunge into the pool with a combination of a friend's father's best bottle of Beefeater's spiked with of all things- grape Kool-Aide, I might feel quite different. But, as it is-gin tastes like a Christmas tree to me-though I am trying hard to learn to love it. I feel that like caviar it is a taste for which one should acquire.

I hate tchotski's on the whole, but I might just have to invest in a pair of these little blue glasses. If it worked for Benchley-it should as well work for me.

As Ms. Parker was known to have said:

"I like a good martini,
One or two at the most.
After one I'm under the table,
After two, I'm under the host."

Should you feel the need to toss aside the concept of this simple drink for something well...more girly but still quite potent, I suggest the following.

Algonquin Bar Punch Recipe

Ingredients
1 oz Pineapple
1 oz Dry Vermouth
2 oz Canadian Whiskey (smuggled past the Mounties & the FEDs)

Directions

Shake and strain into an old-fashioned glass three-quarters filled with cracked ice.
Add an orange slice or a cherry.
Drink to excess.

Hiccup. If you need me I'll be under the host.

Not To Sound Like Alice, but "Eat This"..Trust Me

Sherried Brie and Mushroom Soup
Makes 8 cups

1 pound Marin French Cheese Co Rouge et Noir Brie
2 cups dry sherry
1 1/2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 pound crimini mushrooms, sliced
1/2 cup minced shallots
1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice
2 tablespoons flour
4 cups low-sodium beef broth
1 3/4 cups half and half
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1/2 cup roughly chopped fresh chives, for garnish
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

Trim the rind from the brie and then roughly tear it into 2-inch pieces. (It is easy to trim if you first place the cheese in the freezer for 30 minutes or until it is sufficiently hard.)
Set aside.

In a small saucepan, reduce the sherry over medium-high heat to 1 cup.
Set aside.

In a medium stockpot over medium-high heat, melt the butter. Add the mushrooms, shallots, and lemon juice and cook for 4 minutes, stirring constantly. Remove from the heat, add the flour, and stir until the flour is fully incorporated.

Return the mixture to heat and add the beef broth and reserved sherry. Raise the heat to high and bring the mixture to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer for 15 minutes.

Add the trimmed Brie, stirring until the cheese has melted. Add the half and half and pepper and continue to simmer without boiling for 5 minutes. Taste for salt and pepper.

To serve, ladle the soup into separate bowls and garnish each with 1 to 2 tablespoons of the chives.

To Grow Old in Paris

I found a delicious little essay while out scouting the Internet today and while I realize I should write the author and ask her for permission to duplicate it here, I hope if she ever finds this blog she will find enough affinities between us that she won't sue the pants off me. It just spoke to me today. And, I hope it will speak to you.

Coming of Age

Madame Vincent is ninety-two. She takes the stairs to the second floor, because once she was caught in an elevator for an entire day alone. She uses a cane and takes each step with caution. At the first-floor landing, she pauses and seems to lose her bearings. I think for a moment that she is almost blind, as she reaches for the wall, searching for a clue to her whereabouts.
"Ah," she says to no one in particular, "C’est le premier."

I have just locked my door and am ready to go out. It is now that she notices me.

"Bonjour, Madame." She greets me with a nod of her head.

"Bonjour, Madame," I reply. "Vous allez bien?"

"I have just returned from mass at Salpetriere," she declares in French as she leans onto her cane. Madame Vincent does not speak English. My own has been left behind. But my French has not yet purged itself of its abrupt American style.

"How did you get there?" I ask. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but Salpetriere is a fair distance.

"The bus," she answers, as if it’s of no concern. "They know me there."

Her delicate body is wrapped in a shabby tweed coat. Nylon stockings droop on tiny legs and twist around her ankles. She has pulled her thin, silver hair into a smooth bun, and finished it off with a black velvet hat that appears to have lived as long as Madame Vincent.

"After mass the priest asked a nice young man to accompany me to the bus." Her pale blue eyes become alive as she shares this act of friendship.

"Mais c’est bien." I smile. I’m relieved that this woman is not alone in the world. She shuffles past me in the dark hallway. "Au revoir, Madame," I say to her small, hunched back. I’m off to find a cafe for lunch where I can write in my journal.

I try to imagine Madame Vincent getting on and off the bus. "What must it be like?" I ask myself. I don’t even use the bus at home in Portland. This is Paris. Everything goes fast, and the steps of a bus are high above the ground. People getting off are in the way of people getting on. Does she know immediately where to descend, or does she ask? I must give her credit.
I first met Madame Vincent a few days ago. She was ahead of me on the sidewalk. I watched her put all of her weight against the solid oak door to enter the building. I slowed my pace. It had been a long weekend—too many people and too little sleep. So I passed behind her and stood at the corner to wait a few minutes. I did not want to deal with this old woman.

Old woman.

"I, too, shall be an old woman one day," hissed the good woman of my conscience. "Relax," replied my demon, "you’re allowed to be less than compassionate from time to time." But impatience joined forces with fatigue. I pushed my own weary body against the door and caught a glimpse of Madame Vincent’s sleeve as she rounded the hall corner.

"Me voici," she said, as though to warn me of her presence.

"Bonjour, Madame." My voice seemed thin in the cool, stale air of the vestibule.

Madame Vincent had stopped at the foot of the stairs. I wasn’t sure if she was resting or waiting for me.

"I have been to the Boulevard Arago for some bread," she offered. The corner boulangerie is not open on Thursdays.

"I understand they have to take a day off," she added, "but it makes it difficult to buy my bread." I nodded in sympathy.

She motioned for me to go ahead. "Unless," she suggested, "you will be taking the elevator." I reassured her that I could certainly use the stairs to get to the first floor. Climbing stairs was a novelty, actually. I wondered if she could even imagine my single-story ranch-style house in Oregon.

Up we went, in single file, my steps slower than usual. Madame Vincent spoke to me from behind, and told me of her harrowing experience with the lift.

"The door would not open. I knew that someone would arrive eventually," she said, "but it was a long wait. I was very tired. No place to sit down, you know."

"And such a tiny box," I thought. I remembered the day I tried to squeeze in with my suitcases. It was then that she cautioned me.

"Don’t get old," she began, then added before I could reply, "particularly if you must get old alone. Toute seule," she affirmed with a shake of her head. We arrived at the door to my flat. As I turned the key, I asked Madame Vincent if she would like to come in for a rest.

"No, thank you," she responded. "I’m going to make myself a good, hot cup of tea. You’re most gracious to ask."

My door stood open. I watched Madame Vincent as she rounded the bend and turned her back to continue to the second floor. She planted what seemed like enormous, heavy shoes firmly on each step, first one, then the other. I thought about my impending birthday and wondered how fifty had arrived so quickly. I felt the weight of my bags and watched a wisp of a woman climb alone to her flat, as she had done a thousand times.

Tastiest Little Piece of Fiction I’ve Gulped Down in Some Time

Okay-it’s a snack, maybe an hors d’oeuvre, or even more appropriate…tapis-as it does come from South America. When last in Seattle I stumbled upon Luis Fernando Verissimo’s yummy little piece of fiction called Borges and the Eternal Orangutans. The mention of Borges made me shudder like a dog on point, and the cover art by Fernando Botero pretty much sealed the deal that this one was coming home with me.

I can’t tell you how pleased I was to discover this gem. The story is based upon the life of a mouse of a man named Vogelstein, who decides to attend the annual meeting of the Israfel Society (named after a poem of E.A. Poe’s just in case you missed the reference) which is in fact devoted to the study of Edgar Allen Poe in hopes of meeting his hero, Jorge Luis Borges who he had accidentally insulted decades before.

See-it’s already sounding complicated and he’s not even left his dreary little apartment or his recently deceased cat yet. There is a wonderful moment (actually a few) when one character is toppled over at the opening reception because of his twitchy and introverted character that seems to make him nearly invisible to those around him. He of course becomes a key suspect later in the story.

The crux of the story is that of a “locked door” murder which Vogtelstein discovers. The seriously unlikable Rotkopf (another conference attendee) is stabbed to death in front of a mirror in his hotel room. Does his body make the shape of an I? An M? an X? Can the woman with the seductive mole on her breast be trusted? Along with the assistance of the local constabulary, it somehow falls to Vogelstein and his literary inspiration, the aged, and dying George Borges to solve the case.

Above all it’s a whip-clever little book. Literary references—not just to Poe and Borges, but also to the Bible and to the titular monkeys who might produce a Shakespeare play if sat for an eternity before a typewriter—abound. Verissimo blends mystery, highbrow literary commentary, and philosophical speculation while spinning a suspenseful, believable plot that keeps the reader completely enthralled throughout. The characters are equally ingenious; I found myself aching to be there in Vogelstein’s stead listening to the gravelly voice of Borges.

My only compunction to issuing this raving review is this…sadly I am not able to track down any of Verissimo’s other work which has been translated into English. So, it would appear that should I decide to continue my romance with this brilliant writer I’m going to have to learn to read Spanish. I think that would have pleased Borges.

Constantly Risking Absurdity

By: Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Constantly risking absurdity
and death
whenever he performs
above the heads
of his audience
the poet like an acrobat
climbs on rime
to a high wire of his own making
and balancing on eyebeams
above a sea of faces
paces his way
to the other side of the day
performing entrachats
and sleight-of-foot tricks
and other high theatrics
and all without mistaking
any thing
for what it may not be
For he's the super realist
who must perforce perceive
taut truth
before the taking of each stance or step
in his supposed advance
toward that still higher perch
where Beauty stands and waits
with gravityto start her death-defying leap
And he
a little charleychaplin man
who may or may not catch
her fair eternal form
spreadeagled in the empty air
of existence

Management Has Received No Complaints

I'm under the weather, but there's no need to neglect my blog. It's just brief today-like this wicked little poem.

INTERVIEW

By Dorothy Parker

The ladies men admire,
I've heard,
Would shudder at a wicked word.
Their candle gives a single light;
They'd rather stay at home at night.
They do not keep awake till three,
Nor read erotic poetry.
They never sanction the impure,
Nor recognize an overture.
They shrink from powders and from paints...
So far, I've had no complaints.